


Life in Kirkwall

by Kyogre



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4577421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyogre/pseuds/Kyogre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just an average week in Kirkwall for Hawke and company. His friends are menaces, and the town’s not helping, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life in Kirkwall

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still trying to figure out how to write for this fandom. I’m… not sure I’m succeeding at all.

**I. Monday**

The week started well enough, with Isabela casually letting herself into the Amell estate well after noon – and after the weekend hangover has worn off for the most part – with a rolled up parchment in hand.

“So, Hawke,” she began, waving the parchment casually, “how do you feel about booty?”

“I think you’ve got plenty of great… booty,” Hawke said, then pointedly glanced up and down her figure, just in case his meaning wasn’t clear.

Naturally, Isabela just smirked and obligingly did a twirl, to better show off her generous assets. “Oh yes,” she purred. “But I’m talking about a different kind of booty – treasure. A whole stash of gold, jewels, ancient artifacts, and fine Antivan whiskey, all for the taking! Right here.” Unfurling the parchment, she held it up to Hawke’s inspection – a map of the Wounded Coast, with a large X marking the supposed treasure. “So what do you say?”

Hawke could have asked where exactly she’d gotten the map, or from whom, or even why she felt she needed backup (to which Isabela would have no doubt answered something about useful pack animals), but it was too early in the week for that kind of serious talk. How bad could it be, anyway?

He would somewhat regret this, come Tuesday. Tuesdays were always like that.

Instead, he just grinned and said, “Sounds like an adventure. Let’s see who we can round up.”

Mondays were always busy for Aveline, especially early in the day, Anders wouldn’t have been impressed at being pulled away from his clinic for something as “frivolous” and “distracting” as a treasure hunt, and Fenris had disappeared off to somewhere, so only Varric and Merrill joined them as they set out for the Wounded Coast.   
  
Fortunately, Merrill more than made up for everyone one else in enthusiasm. “A treasure hunt! How exciting!” she said merrily. “Do you think we’ll see any dead bodies?” She sounded far too excited at this prospect – not precisely unlikely, given their luck.  
  
Varric snorted. “There’s always plenty of dead bodies at the Wounded Coast,” he pointed out. “You’ve already seen them, Daisy.” He wisely decided not to comment on Merrill’s… troubling yet bubbly interest in decidedly morbid things. The last time they’d tried to broach the subject, the conversation tree that opened up had been scarring. So much so, that Hawke had mostly repressed the memory.   
  
“Well, yes,” Merrill agreed, “but that’s different. These would be the pirates who buried the treasure! Maybe we’ll have to fight their cursed skeletons!”   
  
“I’m afraid those nice fellows are still quite alive, kitten,” Isabela said. “Miserable, but alive.”   
  
Hawke snorted. “Not like there’s any shortage of cursed skeletons around here,” he said. In fact, the number of undead was a bit ridiculous, even considering Kirkwall’s impressive maleficar population. “I’m sure we’ll run into some.”   
  
They did end up fighting quite a few undead, and giant spiders, and a bunch of bandits. They also got lost no less than eight times, including making the same loop three times because apparently none of them could actually read a map anyway. The treasure was also rather lacking in gold and jewels, being composed instead of cracked crystals – not even gems, just quartz and the like, publications of questionable natures, and counterfeit liquor.   
  
The last they were happy to take care of, so it wasn’t a total waste. All in all, not the worst Monday that Hawke had ever had.  
  
~.~.~

**II. Tuesday**

Naturally, Tuesday was absolutely terrible. Tuesdays always were.   
  
Aveline burst into the Amell estate barely past dawn, and certainly before Hawke’s hangover was anywhere near settling. Her expression was nothing short of frostbite-inducing, especially when she found Isabela and Merrill passed out on one of the couches.   
  
“Good, you’re already here,” Aveline declared, as she dragged a bleary-eyed Hawke and Isabela out of their beds; Merrill remained blissfully asleep. “One of my patrols was attacked when they came across a group of raiders on the Wounded Coast. The perpetrators, apparently called the Blackbeards, were heard arguing about a Rivaini wrench. Would you like to explain why?”

“Because they’re sore losers?” Isabela offered, wincing a little against her pounding head. “I won that map fair and square. Well, not fair-fair, I cheated, but definitely raider-fair. It’s their own fault if they couldn’t catch me at it.”

“The Blackbeards? Really?” Hawke muttered, then held up his hands when Aveline shot him A Look. “What? Come on, you know it’s true. That’s a terrible name. Could they come up with anything more trite?”

“None of them even had beards, not like this fine specimen here,” Isabela agreed. Hawke preened and reached up to scratch at his “fine specimen” of facial hair.

Aveline’s Look deepened, making them both wilt. “We’ll take care of it! We’ll take care of it, promise!” Hawke quickly caved in. And then, as promised, they spent the rest of the day chasing the lamest yet most infuriating group of raiders all across the Wounded Coast. By the time they trudged back to Kirkwall, Hawke had mud and sand in his pants, in his boots, down his shirt, and in his precious beard. And he was stiff with dried salt water from accidentally following the last of the so-called “Blackbeards” (true to Isabela’a words, not one of whom even had a beard) over a cliff into the sea.

And of course, they managed to run into even more undead on their way back. Typical Kirkwall.

~.~.~

**III. Wednesday**

On Wednesdays, Hawke visited Bethany at the Circle. Which, by definition, meant that Wednesdays were terrible, no matter how happy seeing Bethany made him.

Normally, family visits weren’t really a thing the Templars encouraged, or allowed, but Thrask had helped the Hawke siblings coordinate when Bethany would be in the courtyard, and Hawke would just happen to drop by. After three years and more maleficarum hunted down than Hawke wanted to count, most of the Templars were willing to just look the other way once a week.

Seeing her in the Circle robes, in this particular Circle with its agonized statues and prison bars, made something inside Hawke twist furiously, no matter how much Bethany insisted that it wasn’t that bad, that she liked the teaching and meeting other mages. Overall, Bethany claimed she had adjusted to life in the Circle, or had put on a facade of it good enough to fool Hawke, though there were better days and worse days.

The frown on Bethany’s face made it clear that this would not be one of the better visits. That had been becoming more and more common as the Templars became more and more brutal.

As they settled down side by side under a golden bird statue, Bethany bit her lip and fidgeted a bit. “So,” Hawke said, “who do I need to string up in front of the Chantry, naked and covered in dragon dung?”

Three years before Bethany would have turned to him with a scandalized look and scolded him thoroughly for being crass and overprotective, and too violent, all the while trying to hide a smile. She started to do that now, only to pause and purse her lips together thoughtfully.

“Ser Gerard,” Bethany answered, shooting Hawke a look when he gaped at her incredulously. “He just transferred in from Ostwick. I heard he was about to be expelled from the order until Meredith volunteered to take him on – I can see why.”

Her expression had turned uncharacteristically harsh. “What did he do?” Hawke demanded, followed immediately by: “I’ll kill him.”

“Brother!” Bethany sighed sharply, sounding more like her old self. “That’s going too far! He only groped me once, but I heard the other girls saying he’s been–”

“He what.”

“–In any case, since he’s already on probation and doesn’t have any friends here yet, it shouldn’t be hard to get him kicked out for real,” Bethany pressed on, raising her voice to talk over Hawke’s stunned fury – he was gaping a little and making instinctive clawing motions with his hands, as if imagining “Ser Gerard’s” throat between them.  

“I don’t want him kicked out, I want him dead!” Hawke hissed. “With my bare hands!”

Bethany elbowed him sharply. “And then what? There’ll be a manhunt, and they’ll blame the mages! It’s not like they’ll care about guilt, or evidence, or anything like that, since he’s a Templar… for now.” Hawke glowered as he listened to her, but couldn’t really deny her point. “So just make him do something so stupid so publicly, that even Meredith has to kick him out. You already framed that one guy.” Even Bethany couldn’t resist a snicker. “Demony things…” Poor Ser Roderick.

Hawke glared unhappily for a moment longer, but ultimately relented. He could never win against Bethany anyway.

“Leave it to me,” Hawke said. “I know just the person to ask.”

Bethany suddenly looked like she was having second thoughts.

~.~.~

“So there’s a new asshole Templar, and we’re going to run him out of town.” Hawke thought this was a great opener, and it certainly caught Anders’s attention. “You in?”

It was obvious that Anders wanted to instinctively answer with a very resounding “yes” – he was always up for screwing over Templars, in any way possible – but he also had quite a bit of bitter experience with Hawke and Hawke’s amazing plans. Also, he had common sense, at least occasionally.

Without bothering to wait for him to agree, Hawke went on, “It’ll be great! Tonight, meet me down at the Blooming Rose!”

And then showed himself out, leaving Anders to stare after him with an increasing feeling of doom.

~.~.~

The next morning, Hightown and at al least half of Lowtown was buzzing with rumors of how a Templar – some fellow from Ostwick with a bad reputation – had tried to kiss Comte de Launcet’s wife in front of the de Puis mansion, catcalled three Chantry sisters, and gotten his hand broken by what everyone thought was one of the Invisible Sisters. Hawke had gone to sleep the night before feeling distinctly smug.

Meredith was furious, after receiving a surprisingly stern dressing down from Grand Cleric Elthina, and only Cullen’s intervention kept Ser Gerard’s head attached to his body – though he was finally kicked out of the Templars with dishonor.

Unwisely, he tried to drink away the humiliation at the Hanged Man. That earned him two black eyes, and a swift boot out the city. As far as Hawke was concerned, he was lucky to get off that easily.

~.~.~

**IV. Thursday**

Of course, Thursday was when Fenris finally turned up from… wherever he had been. For all that he was named after a wolf, Hawke thought Fenris was more like a cat, coming and going as he pleased, and somewhat prone to scratching. He carefully didn’t share that observation with Anders, who would have ranted for hours, or even days.

All the gossip flying around Hightown, making the nobles and visitors more active than usual, had Fenris constantly looking over his shoulder and practically walking on tiptoes as he made the trek to the Amell mansion. By the time he arrived, he was almost puffing up in agitation.

“What did you do?” Fenris demanded grimly, after some choice Tevinter curses.

“Why do you always think it’s my fault?” Hawke muttered.

“Because it always is,” Fenris shot back without hesitation.

Hawke… couldn’t really argue with that, so he just shrugged. “Well… you probably don’t really want to know,” he said. Fenris didn’t precisely support the Templars, but this was a rather pro-mage affair, and he still bristled at any hint of that, even if he had a soft spot for Bethany.

Conceding the point, Fenris just sighed and said, “If you have so much free time to cause mischief, make yourself useful. I found the base of a slaver operation, down the coast. Will you help me?”

“Do you really need to ask?”

Thursday went pretty well.

~.~.~

**V. Friday**

Naturally, that meant Friday had to be a disaster.

They had managed to not only rout and massacre the slavers, but also free some of their unfortunate victims. Aveline had taken most to the guard to be sorted out and returned to their homes if possible, but there had been several Dalish elves among them. None were originally from Merrill’s clan, but they certainly trusted other Dalish more than a bunch of shems.

So Merrill had volunteered to take them to the Sabrae, without letting Hawke or anyone else get a work in edgewise. Not that Hawke would have refused… but he had to admit he wasn’t exactly eager to go back. The last time they had been there, they hadn’t been able to leave quickly enough, Marethari’s disappointed looks boring into his and Merrill’s backs as they beat a hasty retreat. Letting Merrill have that knife seemed to exhaust whatever goodwill the Keeper had toward Hawke.

Also, escorting a bunch of Dalish through Sundermount’s wilderness wasn’t exactly a pleasant hike to start with, particularly since none of Hawke’s friends actually got along with Dalish elves in the first place – Merrill tried to remain upbeat, but remained tense, remembering her own clan’s rejection of her efforts; Fenris was not nearly elf enough for their tastes, which just made him angry; Anders had a strangely unfriendly view of elves, and especially the Dalish; Hawke, Isabela and Aveline were all shems, and even justified, the elves’ distrust started to grate after a while; and Varric… well, admittedly, everyone liked Varric.

It only got worse when they reached the clan’s campground. Even as she thanked them, Marethari managed to convey her deep disappointment, but by this point Merrill only raised chin stubbornly, looking rather snippy.

“Truly, there is so much good you can do, da’len,” Marethari said. ‘If only you’d give up on this blood magic and cursed mirror thing,’ went unspoken.

“Yes, we’re doing quite good, aren’t we?” Merrill shot back. ‘Haven’t gotten possessed at all, despite all your dire warnings.’

“I am glad to see our brothers and sisters returned to the clans. It is where we Dalish belong.” ‘You should come home too – as soon as you reconsider talking to demons.’

“I do hope they settle in well, or they can reach their own clans. We all have our different ways of doing things, after all.” ‘I’m quite happy with where I am and what I’m doing, and I’m not going to give up.’

And so it went, in a truly masterful display of passive-aggressive verbal combat. Merrill and Marethari kept their voices down, but the entire camp had grown uncomfortably silent, the other elves surreptitiously creeping as far away as they could and carefully not looking at the Keeper and her former First.

Hawke wished he could creep away too, but he suspected Merrill needed the emotional support, so all he could do was try his best to pretend he wasn’t listening to the interpersonal wreck in progress. Next to him, Isabela and Varric did the same – they were plenty experienced at it, mostly from when Hawke did something too embarrassing for words.

Eventually, Hawke cleared his throat, making Merrill and Marethari fall silent and turn to him. It was surprisingly intimidating. “So, uh, it’s getting late,” Hawke said. “Long way back to Kirkwall. We should… get going.”

“…Yes,” Marethari agreed after a moment. “You should. Take care, da’len. You are always in our thoughts.”

Merrill managed to wait until they were out of hearing range before letting out to the furious huff she had been holding in. “Ooooooh!” she groused, clenching her small hands into fists and waving them in agitation. “Why does she have to be like that? She’s always so… so…”

“Judging?” Hawke suggested. He loved his mother, but Leandra occasionally got that way too. And Aveline practically personified it at times, for all that she stalwartly supported Hawke.

“Oh, forget about her, kitten,” Isabela said. “What do those old folks know anyway? I think you’re doing fine.”

Merrill sighed and pouted. “I just… want her to understand. I’m doing all of this for the clan, for our history. And I do know what I’m doing!”

Given his father’s teachings, Hawke still felt rather leering of blood magic in general, but telling Merrill that wouldn’t help – she was far too stubborn and would just refuse to talk to him for a while. Instead, he smiled awkwardly and said, “Well, I’m glad we could those elves out. When we get back, let’s have a round at the Hanged Man to celebrate. It’s on me.”

“Now that sounds more like it,” Varric agreed. “Anything’s better than all this nature.”

Isabela added her own enthusiastic support of that plan, but Hawke was just glad to see Merrill perk up and smile.

~.~.~

**VI. Saturday**

To be frank, Hawke didn’t remember much of Saturday afterwards. Somehow he ended up at the Hanged Man – had Varric asked him to come? Or was it Isabela? Or had he just wandered in on his own? He also didn’t remember the morning, or most of the afternoon, but he definitely ended up very drunk.

**… and VII. Sunday**

And before he knew it, it was Sunday, and Fenris was cursing under his breath while dragging Hawke home at nearly noon.

He fell asleep on the couch in the middle of being chewed out by Leandra. By the time Hawke woke up again, it was evening and Bodahn informed him that several messages had arrived – three requests for aid against bandits, a formal complaint from the city guard, five invitations that sounded more like assassination threats, and a letter from the viscount about some matter with the Qunari.

Monday was looking like it was going to be another fine mess.

~.~.~


End file.
